Choices That Make Us
by kaunis
Summary: Kisses, Chinese food, Azkaban, naughty dreams, painful secrets, yellow pjs, and magic (not necessarily in that order), but beware, you should never get too comfortable for fear of what the future may bring.
1. Prologue

Warning: slash (male/male relationship) though mild, not reviewed by a beta, and rather dark…the rating is just to be on the safe side

Disclaimer: I do not own them and am making no money off my use of them.

Author's Note: Constructive criticism is more than welcome. Originally I meant this as a one shot but have decided to continue it using this chapter as the prologue… I hope you enjoy!

The stairs were worn by the bare feet and lonely tears of those upon whom the rest of the world had turned its back and ceased to dub worthy of its pity- people who had brought the noose down upon their own necks- those who were innately evil (or at least assumed to be so). And society was not in the wrong; they did not deserve pity… let alone compassion. Prisons were for the dregs of society- misfits and miscreants all of them, but not this place; the worn steps, and moist stone walls, and the silence- the deep bottomless silence that could embrace mortals stealing their sanity and eventually their priceless breaths, were for those who deserved so much more. Eerie blue flames lit the way, and gray emaciated faces stared out from behind the shadows- haunted eyes wide- eyelashes fluttering, and skeletal limbs reaching between bars stronger than magic, and logic, and even love- reaching futilely for something only they could see… salvation maybe? It was a lair of the nightmares of men, and none visited- for who would desire to face the fears of others when most men have enough of their own.

The exception to men's rules strode purposely (though not fearlessly) down the stairs; the low heels of his dragon-skin boots initiated a soft tap whose echoes were then hurled from stone wall to stone wall- competing with the infinite silence until even they were swallowed up, and announcing to any still capable of hearing the noises of the mortal realms that one untainted dared to enter the depths of their hell; it would be deception to state there were many still capable and a greater deception still to say that those who were could bring themselves to care. Blessed with the curse of empathy the man braced broad shoulders- that had once carried the hopes, and dreams, and trust of an entire society against their skin, as wave after wave of hopeless, mindless despair washed over him- tendrils of insanity rising from their depths to curl around his limbs and torso and press their weight against the shields of his mind. But war hardens even the most compassionate of men; he shook off the grasping strands of human weakness, and passed the wraith-like-forms of the dying with the cold eyes of a man well-acquainted with suffering. Heroes are not so golden after all.

Stopping suddenly at a cell that (to one who didn't know what they were looking for) appeared no different than any of the others he had previously passed- the man whispered a single word in a language long forgotten- a language of warm breezes rustling newly shed leaves and caressing salty swells, feeding hungry flames and dancing across soft feathers- one whose power even the speaker felt it was sacrilege to call upon in a modern world so devoid of the principles from which it was birthed. That did not stop him though- for pain had stolen his innocence and left the jaded shadow of a man in place of a noble and slightly naïve child. The child would have cared… the man did not. The lock opened with a soft innocuous "click."

"Still beautiful I see." A blond man was sprawled in a far corner of the cell- shadow masking what was not covered by the tatters of his once fine black robes, and thus preserving his dignity. Yet neither robe nor darkness could disguise the vile scent of drying blood… lots of it. The aurors had not been kind. Long silver threads hid most of his face except for small patches of pale skin that practically glowed in the strange light, and it was true… even dirty, battered, and almost unclothed he was still beautiful. It was the ethereal beauty whose spark flared in many magical creatures… many magical creatures and this man, this Draco Malfoy. For a moment the other man let himself wonder what had compelled him to risk the hostility of the dementors to call upon a man for whom he had only ever felt the most acute of hatred; maybe it was the bitter taste of unfinished business… maybe it was something else. Deciding not to analyze his actions further- he dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor and gently- with a single finger, lifted the chin of the prisoner.

"I thought you might come, or maybe I hoped; it could even have been a dream. Are you a dream? It's hard to tell in this place." Wearily lifting a battered arm (that- judging from the raw bloody skin of the forearm, must have held the dark mark before it had been burned away) he motioned to the silent unforgiving chamber. "You never know what's real and what isn't."

Harry Potter- savior of the wizarding and muggle worlds alike, sworn nemesis of this beautiful boy who had whined, and taunted, and tricked, and ultimately hid behind the power of his name, felt his hatred trickle slowly away as the sad gray eyes of a man- who had made his mistakes and accepted the fact that he would pay for them, met his. Step after step Harry had imagined harsh words – witty barbed replies- a verbal sparing that never failed to end in blows- cleansing blows, the kind that would allow him to return to his comfortable London flat and the crisp cotton sheets of his double bed- wondering how he had ever gotten it into his head that he and a Malfoy would have unfinished business. But there were no such harsh words and those eyes – they wouldn't let him. Their serenely hopeless acceptance stole away his pleasant fantasy that people do not change (not that becoming more amoral and less of a git was necessarily a step up). Harry felt as if- for a moment, those eyes penetrated through the history, the lies, and the violent dislike; they penetrated through all the barriers he had built around himself in an attempt to make sure that there would be something left when the war was over- to make sure that not just a figurehead- a pawn in other men's games, would rise from the blood, and gore, and pain of the battlefield, but a man as well. There was something piercing about that desolate gaze, and Harry felt naked before the gray orbs. Maybe you can hide nothing from a man who knows he is going to die in the morning- for the man himself has nothing left worth hiding.

Acting on a whim Harry leaned forward pressing his forehead against the other man's- even matted with blood the flaxen strands of his hair felt silken where cooling sweat had glued them to feverish skin - a quiet "I'm real." was all that was spoken, and as if on its own accord- Harry's left hand rose from its place on the floor to gently cup Draco's bruised cheek and lift his face until their noses and then their lips softly brushed together. Their first kiss wasn't passionate; it wasn't even sweet… it was a bitter, regretful, silent goodbye; it was an acknowledgement of all that might have (but hadn't) been…and it hurt.

"I'm sorry." Tenderly releasing the smaller man- the words escaped Harry's lips before he had even conceptualized saying them.

"Oh Harry," the blond sighed- returning to his former position and letting his hair conceal the glistening at the corners of his eyes. "That's never enough."


	2. Chapter 1

Warning: slash, slight angst, and not reviewed by a beta

Disclaimer: I do not own them and am not in any way making money off my use of them.

Author's Note: Thanks to those who reviewed! This is for you... hope it lives up to your expectations! Once again, constructive criticism is more than welcome.

Small childish fingers tangled themselves in platinum blond locks- a toddler's high-pitched squeals punctuated by elated shrieks of "That way Papa! Go that way!" The day was warm and humid with a hint of rain to come balanced recklessly on the billowy clouds decorating the azure sky. Birds tunelessly chirped their praise of the fine weather as father and son basked in the beauty of a world without commitments- a world where all men were good and righteous and kind…a child's world.

Then _he_ came. He smelled of sulfur, and sweat, and sour wine; his coarse gray robes where smeared with dirt, grease, and a mark the color of rust that the boy couldn't quite place… the father stopped smiling. Soon the child found himself being embraced by the summer air and its pleasant scents- that were so at odds with the odor of the man, as strong arms separated him from the comforting warmth of his father's shoulders and placed his small unclad feet gently against the soft green grass. Dropping- to his knees the boy tangled himself in the hem of his papa's robes.

"Don't go Papa! Mother promised you wouldn't go anymore!" But the rain had fallen from its tenuous perch and the image of the retreating form of the regal man was already being swallowed up by the hypocritically warm droplets.

And then he was there again. This time they were flying. The boy was older now- as he spread his arms above his head relying on the strength of the long limbs wrapped around his broomstick to keep him from a terrifying plummet- long pale fingers reaching for the clouds as their laughter rode the cool autumn breeze. They raced, and circled, and dove. Each smiled- enjoying the company of the other and that of the bias-less, opinion-less sky. Then the laughter stopped…someone was calling. The son and his Papa drifted to the ground- as if in hopes that time might stop if they took long enough to land. The man was there again only this time his robes were black and clean- though the smell of day-old wine still clung cloyingly to his obese figure.

"Please…" What was meant as a quiet plea felt harsh and painful as it escaped the boy- now a man's dry throat.

"Here," gentle hands tenderly lifted a glass of cool water to his parched lips- exposing the gruff voice for what it was…a lie (though a good one). Clouds slowly transformed themselves into feather pillows covered in crisp cotton cases as he gulped the revitalizing liquid- a little trickling from the corner of his mouth only to be whipped away by a calloused thumb.

"Where am I?" The blond man was relieved to find he sounded slightly more human- even though his throat still felt scratchy and sore. In fact, his entire body ached the dull ache of flesh bruised and broken until it no longer had any belief in its own ability to heal, and as the water dulled the immediate soreness of his throat he realized that the throbbing centered around his left forearm. Gathering the shreds of his courage- he lifted his head just enough to examine the offending limb.

"Why hell of course." The gruff voice stated softly near his ear- with only a hint of sarcasm.

Without replying he slowly took in the sight of his arm…and a sight it was. It took all of his self control to tear his eyes away from the mess of ruined flesh and bloody bandages and focus on the other occupant of the room.

"It's both magic and muggle…neither can help."

The blond inclined his head in an almost indiscernible nod before letting it droop tiredly to rest once again against the soft pillows- escaping the reality the raven-haired man had so aptly dubbed and returning to a purgatory more dear to his own heart- one of his own mind's making.

Harry Potter trailed one hand through his wayward locks while using the other to rub sleep-deprived eyes. He had pulled every string he knew in and outside the ministry- called in old favors, begged and pleaded, bribed and blackmailed…and he had won. Draco Malfoy was sleeping in his bed. Even so, the pride he felt at that statement was easily eclipsed by the knowledge that the emotionless affirmations and vapid stare of formerly striking gray eyes could mean only one thing. Azkaban had broken the blond man. He may have won…but it had taken too long.


	3. Chapter 2

Warnings: slash (though mostly in later chapters), rather dark, au, and a large probability of errors since I don't have a beta

Disclaimer: I don't own them and am not making any money of their use.

Author's note: I was on vacation last week and had a little free time to reread what I had written for this...there are some minor changes in the previous chapters though it's really just fixing errors. Hope you enjoy -)

The cool marble walls of a room never christened bore silent witness to a meeting between father and son. Gone was the fondness of youth and ignorance; in its place stood two men tied irrevocably- by first their birth and then their own actions, to an age-old name. They were irredeemable. Too much cooling mortal blood had embraced their pale palms- staining what could once have been pure flesh the color of sin. They lived by principles of their own making- following the mad whims of a dying power in an attempt to deliver humanity into the grasping coils of hell.

Sitting stiffly behind an imposing mahogany desk the older man- his flawless skin and shining hair giving him the illusion of eternal youth only disproved by slate eyes no warmer than ice, gazed intently upon the blood of his blood- as if searching keenly for a minute flaw only he could see. Time had stolen their love for one another and in its place left an animal-like lust for power- their single-minded greed driving them to great things…terrible but great.

A gust of winter wind fought for dominance with heavy velvet curtains- its transient fingers reaching towards the younger occupant of the room- calling in the soft whisper of its kind for his attention. The gentle tendrils had not forgotten the feel of his soft locks as he basked in their glory- the glory of an open sky. They had heard the clear ring of his laughter as he allowed himself to drown in childish pleasure, and it was their embrace he had sought as silent tears made their mark on fallible skin. The redemption of flesh was impossible, but his soul refused to acknowledge its own wrongdoing; its anguished cry echoed across the edges of the realms of man… and it was the wind that answered its call.

Even so the temperate element was no match for the restricting fabric and it retreated- for the moment, as the father found the failing he so attentively sought.

"Crucio."

Remembered pain brought consciousness quickly to the injured male. Fighting down a strong bought of nausea he attempted to hoist himself into a sitting position only to have his left arm buckle; wave after wave of sharp pain traveled like fire- igniting knitting muscle and bone into a blaze whose black smoke pressed closely against the back of his gray orbs. Pain and darkness warred with pride…pride won.

Sighing quietly he closed his eyes and waited for the throbbing to recede. The room was bright when he reopened his eyes- the sun having cast its golden rays away from itself- spreading their beauty throughout the world as a gift to mankind. A slight draft slid silently between French doors dancing gaily across wood and under wool; twining itself about linen moist with perspiration and every-so-often reaching uncertainly towards poisoned flesh slowly healing. The air's tentative touch was a comforting presence- much welcomed, as the blond man became aware of the room's other silent occupant.

"I thought you might be awake."

The other man looked sleep-ruffled- his raven locks haphazardly framing a handsome face and vibrant emerald eyes no longer hidden by thick glass lenses, and he smelled lightly of pine forests after autumn showers and… sex. Then again, maybe it was just the wind. The prone figure fought momentarily against flashes of stone walls, moving shadows blacker than night that brought with them the stench of rotting human flesh and the sounds of human madness, and the press of soft heated lips stroking his own.

"You smell like sex." The unintended statement was met with the bloom of genuine laughter and a cockily raised eyebrow. While in the past a pinkish tint would have quickly spread across the canvas of tanned skin and high cheekbones of a boy who had seen too much, and yet was still embarrassed by the simple aspects of adult life- the tell-tale sign of discomfort was conspicuously absent from the visage of the man. In fact suddenly the back-haired male leaned forward- the brush of hot breath across sensitive skin as he whispered into Draco's ear almost making the smaller of the two jump clear of the bed- pain be damned.

"I like to feel good." Then the warmth of flesh and the reassurance of laughter was gone- like a lovely memory you can never quite be sure is real. Back was the brusque exterior of someone who had told the rest of the world to go to hell- already positive his own place there had been reserved long ago. Telling Draco to try and sit up- he quickly exited the bedroom- promising food over his shoulder on the way.


	4. Chapter 3

Warnings: slash, rather dark at times, au, not reviewed by a beta

Disclaimer: I don't own them and am making no money of my use of them.

Author's note: Thanks for the reviews! This is a little longer than the last two chapters and dives a little into a type of magic I have created for Draco. You also learn a little more about this story's version of Harry. Constructive criticism is welcome! Hope you enjoy!

A young man- pale locks escaping from a black bow to obscure his eyes, gently trailed a long digit across prominent cheekbones and then down along the jaw of the prone figure lying at his feet. Almost reverently he rested two fingers against her eyelids- drawing the thin skin over orbs that would never again look with any emotion upon the doings of men. Her soul had forsaken its mask of mortal flesh; it had risen to embrace the ethereal world whose inhabitants were all those who had moved on. She was so cold. For a moment he let himself wonder if the haunting sightless eyes had once shone with laughter, if her now stiff cheeks used to reveal dimples when her lips curled upwards in a genuine smile, if now icy hands had ever clasped another to her bosom in love, if the salty swell of tears had ever before that fateful night marred perfect skin. How many wonderful moments had he stolen from her simply because the wrong sort of blood had flowed through her veins. Running his hand through her flaming red curls he questioned if this was regret and wondered silently what her name was.

Suddenly shadows were pressing forwards- reaching, twirling, searching, suffocating. Then it was over. They were we in a cell now, and no longer alone. Her eyes where open again; they were green- the most vibrant emerald one could ever imagine, and her blood-less lips were moving. She was saying something. Then his concentration was broken; a flesh-less hand was drawing bleached bone fingertips from his cheekbone to his jaw- almost the exact same gesture he had earlier preformed. Black rags pooled around the figure's wrists and the scent of rotting flesh permeated the area. It was getting stronger; the form was coming closer- leaning forwards intimately as if for… a kiss. The figure was so close all he could see was blackness; the smell forced its way through closed lips- every tiny breath full of the odour of death. She was talking again; her name, she was saying her name.

Draco clawed his way into consciousness- fleeing his sins and the fate he had so narrowly cheated. Using his undamaged forearm he wiped away tears he hadn't even known he was shedding, blinked, and looked slowly around the room for the flat's other occupant. He and Harry had found themselves falling into a sort of routine the past few days. Draco would sleep, wake, look around for Harry- if the other was there they would eat or sometimes just sit calmly conversing about absolutely nothing. It was a good routine; Harry never asked why Draco sometimes cried in his sleep and Draco never commented on the sounds he could sometimes hear coming from the other side of the wall in what he assumed was a sort of main room/ kitchen.

In fact he could hear them now- soft moans and ragged breathing punctuated by the occasional breathy feminine whisper of "Harry." The tone of the second voice had a tendency to change with the day. The first time Draco noticed- it was a deep masculine purr that sounded as if the owner had a few years on his black-haired partner, then there was a female voice with the hints of culture and old money, not to mention the slightly nasal pronunciation that brought to mind the French, next came someone with a thick Texan drawl- he was a moaner, thankfully yesterday's flavour had been quiet; he hadn't woken up.

Stretching and turning over a little more loudly than was absolutely necessary Draco summoned all of his magical strength and made a subtle motion with his hand; the window replied- opening with a "swoosh." Then he started to sing. The song was evocative; his quiet voice rising and falling in a sad melody with no happy ending. He was calling- asking the wind upon whose power he had come to rely to answer his summons. It was an old magic, the song, and one very different from that which Harry had learned to employ. The element itself choose the magic's wielders, and though in times of great need it would sometimes intervene and attempt to set its chosen on the path to righteousness- mostly whether sinner or saint it only aided, never judged.

They came as the background noise of human passion died down to nothing. Draco had seen them sometimes as a child- moving shapes he fancied were his imagination. As he grew older they appeared more often, gained more substance. When he left Hogwarts as a young adult he had begun to think himself crazy; then he joined the Death Eater's, and they began to talk. They taught him the song.

He held out his hand for the miniature form of a scantily clad woman to perch upon. To most of those who could see her- she appeared translucent- as if shaped from summer mists; to the best the haze that was her being was tinted with pastel hues, and to Draco she was outfitted in a wrap of vibrant though lucent red that matched her swirling almond eyes almost perfectly. He was more gifted in the art of calling than any had been for centuries.

She pointed- unwilling to talk where one might be so easily overheard, and he lifted her closer to his other arm. Though viciously pointed nails and teeth were not for show- she and her mate- who was watching intently from the foot of the bed, were renowned among their kind for their ability to heal. Reaching towards the poisoned flesh she immediately recoiled in horror. Shaking her head-full of midnight blue locks she bent down to rest a hand reassuringly against his wrist and then they were gone.

Harry opened the bedroom door- not surprised to find Draco already awake.


	5. Chapter 4

Warnings: slash, au, not reviewed by a beta

Disclaimer: I don't own them and am making no money of my use of them.

Author's note: First off, sorry this took so long. I actually struggled through writing song lyrics to go with this chapter only to decide that they would be more appropriate later. Next, if anyone would be interested in being a beta for this story I would greatly appreciate it, and if you have a good grasp of British English that would be even more appreciated! I would like to stay true to the book in that sense, but I need some definite help. Last, this is probably my least favourite chapter, and eventually I hope to alter the beginning to make it less cliché but for now…I hope you enjoy! Constructive criticism is, as always, more than welcome!

Draco sighed as strong arms wrapped protectively around his waist. Someone was nuzzling his neck, and he stretched to the side to accommodate their slow appraisal. Warm lips were replaced by a warmer tongue that drew lazy patterns across soft skin- followed by cool breath tickling the heated flesh. He knew he should say something, break away from the loose embrace, silence the soft moans of appreciation his body was unconsciously awarding the presence at his back; instead, he leaned into the warmth of a solid chest- entwining his fingers with those of the other man. The other's response was to trail their tangled digits upwards- lifting the hem of Draco's shirt in the process, until short finger nails were mirroring the earlier movements of a fiery mouth. Draco shivered as his partner began a slow grinding together of their bodies, and nails were replaced by callused fingertips. He arched his back even as another kiss flashed through his hormone- addled mind- soft lips, callused fingertips, the hands of a quidditch player. His focus shifted. A quidditch player's hands, strong _tan_ arms, messy black strands prickling the side of his face- suddenly he was seeing red and gold- remembering a young man with piercing green eyes- outfitted in house colours, as he dove recklessly after a taunting speck far below them.

"Harry."

"Here I was just heading in to wake sleeping beauty up, and dream me seems to have already done the honours." The statement was followed by a knowing wink and Draco closed his eyes as heat (of the vibrant red-hued variety) trailed up his neck and blossomed across his cheekbones- contrasting strongly with his pale skin and locks and clashing horribly with mustard yellow pyjamas that Harry swore he had bought because they made his green eyes standout fetchingly. Personally, Draco suspected that a certain Weasley and Christmas had been involved; after all, Harry seemed more of a boxers for bed sort of chap.

"I thought I'd get some food. Want anything?"

"Sure."

Having received an acceptable answer Harry began to shut the door before apparently having second thoughts. Another wink punctuated an amused parting comment about him not being on the menu and the formerly receding blush returned with a vengeance.

Unfortunately for Draco, dinner was an exceedingly unsavory affair consisting of cooling chicken broth and orange juice. Harry had ordered himself Chinese take-out and was busy lounging in a navy bean bag chair he had placed near the bed to "keep Draco company" (Which really meant watch the blond struggle with muscles sore from lack of use and various healing wounds in uncomfortable silence.). Harry didn't know it but his charge was a classic example of masculinity when it came to food. The injured man eyed the egg noodles being lazily twirled around the tip of a chopstick with something akin to jealousy, and Harry, encouraged by the small show of emotion, slowly lifted the offending tidbit to his lips- letting his eyelids snap shut in mock bliss at the greasy taste of cheap and easy sustenance.

Sighing in defeat Draco abandoned what reminded him of youth, snowball fights, stuffy noses, and doting mothers to lean back into the mountain of feather pillows Harry had piled behind his back.

Harry contemplated a little more good-natured teasing of the blond but decided against it- instead waiting for the other to initiate conversation.

Draco fiddled with the edge of the bed's sheets- wrapping the soft cotton around his fingertips as he searched for a suitably casual topic to talk about- one that would not lead to discussing the faint memory of a soft kiss and the sharper recollection of an unsettlingly intimate dream.

"You still play Quidditch." It wasn't a question- just a quickly blurted attempt to ease the somewhat tense silence, but the very edge of Harry's lips curved upwards in genuine fondness for the topic.

"Occasionally. After graduation I was offered a place as reserve seeker for the Chudley Cannons, but I had different priorities at the time. Still, it would have been nice." His smile widened, and he closed his eyes briefly as if imagining the wind rushing through his hair, the cling of sweat-soaked cloth, the deafening cheer of fans, and sometimes the sweetly addictive taste of victory.

"You don't." Though the words formed a statement- the subtle inclination of Harry's head and the training of now opened eyes on the other implied an inquiry.

"I haven't in a long time. I never imagined playing professionally. You're right though; it might have been nice." Neither man was deceived into thinking that the admission was just about Quidditch; a world without Voldemort- without names, and scars, and school houses deciding your fate- a world where a young man could simply be a man and not the embodiment of hope, or values even he did not always believe in…it would have been nice.

Harry's smile disappeared and he moved closer to the bed until his crossed forearms were resting against the mattress and his chin upon them. Draco fought the urge to physically shy away from the disconcerting gaze of green orbs. They had specks of brown that were swallowed up by the overpowering emerald at larger distances- almost like a canopy of pine needles with a few lone branches peaking rebelliously through.

"Where would you be now, if not for the war?"

"That's easy. I would be sitting in Malfoy Manor right now- drinking port and chatting with a blue-blooded, and properly vapid, blonde- probably French. My mother always wanted me to marry a French girl. She said they were the only ones who still appreciated the subtleties of good manners and breeding. It may have helped that she was French herself. What about you? Where would Harry Potter be without his scar?"

The smile was back; "Maybe I would still be here, with you," and he was leaning close- so close that their lips almost brushed. Draco could feel the black- haired man's breath- inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. As if on its own accord his heartbeat sped up, and his own breathing reflected it. Then, Harry was laughing- the sort of laugh that started deep in the pit of your stomach and bubbled up until escaping into the world to ring with loud and wild abandon. It was a real laugh- a cherished rarity. Swiftly he pressed their lips together and then retreated from the room- eyes shining mischievously

"What sort of game have I gotten myself into…"

My sincere thanks to Cianna Greenwood, Morniea Inglorion, Ashes of Stars, and XXmaybe-memoriesXX for taking the time to review!


	6. Chapter 5

Warnings: see other chapters… this one is pretty innocent

Disclaimer: I don't own them and am making no money off this little piece of my imagination.

Author's Note: The song lyrics, on the other hand, do belong to me. The same goes for any characters that you don't recognize from the works of J.K. Rowling. As usual constructive criticism is more than welcome. I know it's short but I hope you enjoy!

_Painted roses with my dripping blood  
Plucked feathers from my broken wings  
Made mock'ry of an innocent love  
Darkness flowed like heat through your veins_

_Oh the past, it left its scars  
And the future may still break my heart  
But I'm, but I'm still livin  
Only who knows how long for_

_Watched salty tears trickling down my cheeks  
Made gaping wounds in once smooth flesh  
Left me praying to a silent God  
Pleading for just one gentle touch_

_But I'm, but I'm still livin  
Only who knows how long for  
And one of these days you'll write your name on my grave  
Trace fingertips 'cross defiled stone_

_Cause these scars, they'll never go away  
The future can only break this wounded heart  
And one day, one day I'm gonna trip  
Knowing only hell will ever break my fall_

_One day  
My heart will break  
My wounds will gape  
My soul will cry and  
The devil will be  
He'll be my first loving embrace_

_Cause of you…_

The cool breeze that stole the last notes of the song- ushering them out the window as if afraid that left to their own devices they might decide to defy nature and stay with the one whose voice had so sweetly uttered the depressing melody, was replaced by swirling ruby eyes. Draco smiled.

"You look beautiful today." The miniature figure twirled gracefully and bowed with a flourish- causing her navy garments to flow like a dark storm about her tiny body.

"Only beautiful? Is that all?"

"If it was would you leave?" Alighting on the sheets pooled around his stomach she raised an eyebrow and waited. "Fantastic, remarkable, amazing, stunning…better?"

"So unoriginal. I always knew humans were a lower life form." Draco's laugh was unfettered, and the edge of his companion's lips twitched even as she strove to stay balanced on her moving perch.

"Fanmarkazingumdiddilyumptuous?" She simply buried her face in pale palms and moaned in mock horror. "Worse?" the blond haired man asked with a smirk.

"Much, much, much worse."

"Do I at least get points for creativity?" Peaking between her fingers she shook her head. "Alright then, if you were over a meter taller, and male, I wouldn't be able to tear my eyes away from you. How was that?"

"That's acceptable… I suppose."

Running his good hand through sleep mussed hair Draco reminded her that she hadn't mentioned how he looked.

"You can fish for compliments once someone burns that awful yellow thing you're wearing." A gentle gust of wind interrupted their banter; it tickled the nape of Draco's neck only to be driven away by fingertips; after which it swirled, and looped, and coiled, and danced through pale locks- tugging individual strands all the way. After escaping, it attempted to rush towards freedom only to be trapped by a small hand and shaped into a miniature flute- on which a few notes were played before the harried wind was released to go upon its way. As red met grey Draco felt his smile falter.

"I missed you too, shining one."

Turning away, he let his hair mask a few lonely tears until a tiny hand caressed his cheek, and a little body curled up on his shoulder- hiding under the curtain of his hair as if it could shield them from the outside world.

"It was awful there. It's been so long since I was truly alone."

"We thought you were lost. We couldn't hear you any longer." It was a softly spoken admission- an apology for an imagined wrong.

"I was; maybe I still am."

She pressed her lips to his cheek as the sound of an opening lock filled the silence.

"Your baby goat is back, it seems." was whispered near his ear.

"My baby goat?"

"So very fast. We called him once but he didn't answer. We are just wind to him." Draco nodded as her minute weight and larger warmth disappeared from his shoulder. Her kind was loath to admit lapses of judgment when it came to talent; they prided themselves in having excellent instincts when it came to finding those who were gifted in the way the songs required. Thus, he took the comment for what it was, a warning. It was a reminder that some knowledge was not meant to be shared.

"You make my secrets heavy, beautiful one." The only reply was the "swish" of the wind outside the window.


End file.
